“I’m not made of stone! It pains me for my son and grandson, but I won’t bend to my daughter-in-law any longer.”
— To this day, I still don’t understand why this Marina ever wanted a child if she carried on living only for her career and her reflection after the birth—spoke Margaret Whitmore, a 62-year-old woman from York, her voice thick with sorrow.
Her son Edward—clever, ambitious—had risen to a managerial position in a reputable tech firm by the age of 35. But his wife, Marina, had climbed even higher. Nine years his senior, she had built a breakneck career in a major corporation. Children had never been part of her plans. She feared losing her standing, being left “out of the running,” overtaken by someone younger and hungrier for acclaim.
They lived, as the saying goes, in fine style—a penthouse in London, a country house in the Cotswolds, the latest automobiles, holidays across Europe. Yet warmth was scarce in their home. They saw each other less often than their business associates. And though Margaret never interfered, she worried for her son—it was plain to see how exhausted he was, how he strained to be a good husband, only to meet an unyielding wall.
When Marina, at forty, unexpectedly announced she was pregnant, the whole family was stunned. Even Edward didn’t know whether to celebrate or brace himself. His mother, who had long given up hope of grandchildren, wept with joy. But soon, happiness gave way to unease.
— She hardly left the office, even in her final months. Near as anything, she gave birth during a board meeting. Never let go of her phone, not even in the delivery room—Margaret recalled bitterly. — I half expected her to return straight to her desk from the hospital.
Yet in the first weeks after the baby’s arrival, Marina seemed utterly changed. Hormones took hold; she hovered over the boy, sleepless, terrified to miss a single breath. She barred everyone from the house—even her mother-in-law. Did everything herself. But it didn’t last.
The moment she stopped breastfeeding, the question of returning to work loomed large. Marina insisted the company was crumbling, that her deputy was botching projects, and without her, all would be lost. Finding a nanny proved difficult—she trusted no one. So she offered to pay Margaret to look after the child. Reluctantly, the grandmother agreed, hoping it might mend their bond.
— At first, it was perfect. I cared for the baby, rested on weekends, while his parents took over. It was a joy—finally, time with my grandson—Margaret remembered.
But soon, the requests multiplied. Marina dismissed the housekeeper and began demanding her mother-in-law not only mind the child but clean and cook as well. She paid, yes, but the work grew unbearable—an infant needed constant attention.
— Once, I was scrubbing the fridge while the boy napped in his playpen. The bedroom was upstairs; I didn’t want to disturb him. Thought I’d manage quickly—Margaret explained.
When Marina came home and found her son in the playpen, she erupted like a struck match:
— Why isn’t he in his cot? Why isn’t he out for a walk? What am I paying you for? I expect him well-rested, well-fed, impeccably kept!
The next day, the housekeeper returned. And with her, total surveillance—cameras in every room, daily reports. Even the slightest bruise earned a scolding. Margaret felt less a grandmother than a servant under a microscope.
— I grew afraid even to step away to the loo—she confessed, her eyes welling. — Always felt watched. And my son took her side—’Mother, be patient, you’re being paid.’ But this isn’t work to me—it’s my heart breaking!
After yet another scene—Marina calling her “useless and idle”—Margaret snapped.
— That’s it. I quit. I’m not your servant. Find yourself a nanny with a diploma if you like, but count me out of your battles—she said, and left.
Since then, Marina has forbidden her even to cross their threshold. She keeps the grandson away. And Edward… Edward stays silent. Sends the occasional terse message, always siding with his wife.
— I’m not ironclad! It hurts. I lived for my family, for my grandson—Margaret whispered. — But I won’t bow any longer. This isn’t what I raised my son for. Let them live as they please. Though I hear their nannies never last a week. Seems few can stomach their ‘perfect rules.’
Had Marina ever simply said, “I’m sorry”—perhaps things might have been different. But now the bridges are ash.
